It's always the flowers
by Hashilavalamp
Summary: They have been meeting up for months now, away from the public at the hotel or in quiet bars and each time, Ivan brings him flowers. Ludwig questions this habit just a little, wondering about the other's intentions, because of course there has to be an ulterior motive behind that. Things are never simple after all. [GerRus, set in 1927]


**A new Oneshot from me, the first proper shipping thing! GerRus is simply such an incredibly interesting ship to me and the 1920s work very well for them considering the political situation between the countries and the period of relative stability in each country in the years ~1925 to 1928!**

 **Enough of my rambling, please enjoy! Feedback would be very much appreciated!  
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„Why is it always flowers with you?"

Ivan stops in his tracks, caught by surprise by the question that breaks the comfortable silence between them and a smile tugs at his lips as he turns around to face Ludwig. He stands there in the middle of the sidewalk, soft music and loud laughter and the smell of smoke drifting over to them from the bars, and beneath the light of the streetlamps the German's eyes are shadowed. Looks almost sinister, but the words held no malice, so Ivan is not worried.

"You bring me flowers every time we meet. I'd like to know why" Ludwig elaborates a tad flustered when he receives no immediate response, shifting and burying his hands in the pockets of his dark blue coat while Ivan merely grins and closes the distance between them. Their gazes meet when they are nearly chest to chest and Ludwig has the look up and for a moment the world quietens - then Ivan lightly pinches Ludwig's cheek and retreats again in a swift motion before his friend can swat at him or complain, his laughter joining the noise of the night.

Ludwig bristles at the childish gesture and with an indignant sound he catches up with Ivan with long strides, the darkness regrettably hiding most of his facial features because the Russian is sure his companion's cheeks must be red from embarrassment. It shows so easily on his pale skin.

"My, have you been wondering about that all night? Wondered just what plan I am following that involves giving you flowers while we were out and drinking? Wondered what goal I'm pursuing with roses over your beer?" Ivan responds at last and bumps their shoulders together once they are side by side once more, his eyes crinkling in amusement when Ludwig simply scoffs and shoves back.  
If Ludwig could see the way his eyes light up whenever Ivan shows up with another bouquet, he wouldn't be asking why Ivan does it – but Russia cannot tell him that because then he'd try to hold it back.

"I was simply curious. You have one each time without fail, isn't that a bit of a chore? You really needn't do it" Ludwig grumbles, hunching his shoulders and quickening his step, Ivan effortlessly keeping pace because he is used to these sudden bursts of nervous energy from the other. He's become so attuned to him that it's scary. Without looking he even knows that Ludwig does his best to not step on the cracks in the sidewalk.  
Ivan is still smiling and lets his arm brush against Ludwig's, satisfied when the man doesn't flinch away from the touch. "Ah Ludwig, you need to learn that sometimes people do things because they want to and not because they feel obligated to do so, yes? What did obligations ever matter to me anyway? I bring you these flowers because I enjoy it, searching for an ulterior motive is a waste of your precious time."

A bit of a lie because at first it was because he liked mocking Ludwig, a hobby that was almost painfully easy to pursue. It's funny how things change. By now the florist knows Ivan by name and each time she tells him that the lady he is courting is lucky, to which he replies each time that he is lucky that his 'lady' hasn't chased him away yet.  
He doesn't know how much time he's already spent in that shop, just looking for the right flowers.  
He tells himself that mocking is still the ultimate goal, no matter how far from the truth that is again.

Ludwig still looks at him with unconcealed distrust and the lights lining the streets give his eyes an eerie glint as they hurry by, and the foreign sensation of discomfort twists Ivan's guts. Takes him a moment to even recognize it, to realize why he feels a little nauseous all of a sudden, and then some more to pinpoint why he'd even feel uncomfortable. Another moment dedicated to marveling at the kind of things Ludwig effortlessly draws out of him because he's not socially aware enough to do so intentionally.

"…You always keep them, you like the flowers" Ivan states, just to reassure himself, eyes fixated on that glint, the thin line of Ludwig's mouth with its slight downwards curl. "It doesn't make you uncomfortable."

"I just don't understand it."

"I explained it to you, it's very simple! I like doing it, and you like flowers and tradition, so I don't see the issue?" Ivan retorts, irritation bleeding into his words because the knot in his guts just won't disappear and Ludwig is being evasive and it's unfair that Ivan is made to feel such things. He tries to bump into his _friend_ again, but he steps aside before they make contact.  
There are some people ahead, drunk and laughing, they won't care about two men touching innocently _, they aren't even looking in their direction_ , but of course Ludwig worries still. Worries about such ridiculous things. Worry worry worry.

"…But _this_ makes you uncomfortable" Ivan muses aloud into the silence between them, smiling wide and lopsided despite the anger coiling in his chest around his heart, and he grabs Ludwig's hand before he can pull it away. The fingers twitch in protest and the German lets out an irritated hiss, trying to jerk away from the grip to no avail. He's been exposed and Ivan does not let go so easily.  
They've caught up to the group ahead, still hand in hand, and then they're past them. Not a single look, no quiet disdainful whispers about this sort of behavior. Ludwig twists in his grip like a fish out of water, the movements forceful and desperate.

"What is wrong with you!" Ludwig snaps at him once Ivan releases him, his deep voice straining as he attempts to keep the volume low so that his protest nearly drowns among the sounds of the people. It stings like a heated wire against vulnerable skin if Ivan doesn't remind himself of how pathetic this reaction is. Ludwig acts as though anyone is going to care, as though anyone could know what they do behind closed doors just because their hands touched once in public! So all Ivan does is laugh, even louder so when Ludwig to his side snarls like a kicked dog.

So what if they are still in public? Nobody will care. Ivan dips down still laughing and whispers these words into Ludwig's ear, earning himself a punch to the arm.

"Have the Soviets completely ruined your common sense?" the German asks with his breath smelling of alcohol, voice loud in Ivan's ear now that they are so close together. "They haven't done anything to me, Ludwig. I just know how to enjoy myself, there is nothing wrong with that" the Russian responds with a grin. "To the humans we are just drunk men being fools. No need to care about what they think anyway."

"I can tell you don't care" Ludwig grumbles back, grinding his teeth together when Ivan boldly puts an arm around him, their legs almost tangling as they walk. "You even had to show up in full Soviet uniform. Stop touching me."

"It's the nicest uniform I have" Ivan protests, though his tone is teasing. He does put some distance between them again though, wanting to touch Ludwig's face but not wanting to push his luck too far tonight. "Just like you always show up well-dressed. You aren't the only one who has to compensate."

Ludwig just shoots him a confused glare, so Ivan snickers again.

"Well, neither of us is exactly handsome! Your eyes are so deep in your skull that your face looks like that of a skeleton right now, and your nose is too big and broken. My face isn't all that nice to look at either, so I vowed to at least dress nicely when I go out with you. You won't have to apologize for your company then."

At last, something like a snort of amusement can be heard from Ludwig. The rubber bands of nervousness around Ivan's ribcage loosen just a little. "I will have to apologize anyway for being seen with a communist who cannot behave in public."

"You wound me" Ivan says honestly. "I thought we agreed that we won't talk of politics anymore. It just makes both of us very unpleasant and the last time you broke my nose and I said something very unfair."

"How could we not? It's bound to come up if you walk around like that in public, and we are still nations, not just men" is Ludwig's cold response, his tone not leaving much room for arguments. Germany's world is built on principles and dos and don'ts and trying to fight against those is a Sisyphus task.

(And in that blink of an eye it hits Ivan just how _young_ Ludwig is.)

Back when he was still an empire of stitches, Ludwig had looked up at him and had said they would be friends because Russia needed money and Germany needed natural resources, and that was the exact thing Ludwig had said to him again six years ago in 1921. Money and resources, the basis of friendship between nations, friendship on paper at least. That's how Ludwig always saw the world, continues to see it.

It explains why the flowers are a problem for Ludwig. He doesn't know how to fit them into the picture he's painted of their relationship, no matter how hard he tries. The piece of the puzzle that he can't force to fit when everything else bends to his will. Ivan has nothing to gain with them, with flowers or gifts. Everything else can be made to make sense, everything else can be desire or an insidious attempt at mockery or convincing or both. That's how it started after all, and how dare things _change_?

Ah well. It's time for Ludwig to learn then that they are not just pure purpose either. They don't carry human names for nothing. It's a downright honor for Russia to be the one to destroy that part of Ludwig's understanding of the world because Ivan's destroyed himself enough times to know that something better will grow from the ashes.

"Say Ludwig, what am I to you? What are we? Am I your lover? Your suitor, perhaps?" Ivan asks with a grin instead of appropriately responding, electricity crackling in his veins in anticipation of the answer, and his heart flutters when the light hits his companion's face just in time to expose the flush on his cheeks.

"Business partners" Ludwig replies brusquely and so quick that he almost stumbles over the syllables.

Of course.

Ivan laughs whole-heartedly at first so that the sound ricochets off the facades, and then he sighs heavily and looks around with half-closed eyes; the houses here have darkened windows and no noisy clubs downstairs, no bars or pubs or streams of party-goers. They've left those behind further down the street and the noise too is fading to a low buzz in the back of their heads with each impatient step further, with each corner turned. Just a few stragglers walk here, women in expensive coats and gentlemen escorting them home in the hopes of being let inside. Probably still too public so the Russian hurriedly looks out for a little opening between house walls, lips curling upwards into a boyish smile when he spots one just ahead.

Without a look back, Ivan disappears into the narrow crevice in the facades, his gloved fingers running along the bricks to his sides childishly. The light from the street barely reaches them anymore, so it's as ideal as it can be out here.

His heartbeat stutters when he notes that Ludwig followed him without question, the footsteps giving him away. When Ivan turns to face him, Ludwig's outline shines bright in the shadows and even if the darkness swallows the details of the German's face, he can tell that his eyes are wide as he waits for Ivan to act.

So Ivan does act.

He can still taste the beer on Ludwig's lips when he brings their mouths together; Ludwig's body arches up against him as soon as they make contact and Ivan knows how much it must frustrate Ludwig to know that he gives himself away so easily. They've gotten so far from the first clumsy and painful lip contact behind the bar to heated kisses in some rank alley. It comes easy with practice. Ludwig still bites at his lips sometimes, but Ivan suspects that's not due to incompetence in kissing.  
His lips tingle and burn whenever they part long enough to gasp for breath, and just as Ludwig tugs at Ivan's short hair, the Russian asks "So this is how you conduct business?"

"Yes" Ludwig bites back stubbornly and pulls until Ivan can speak no more because his lips have more important matters to attend to. Hopefully only with me, Ivan thinks with irrational spite in the back of his mind as he fiddles with the buttons on Ludwig's coat even though he knows he won't get what he wants just yet. Not in this place. Sure enough Ludwig swats at his hands until Ivan gives up and places them back on the other's hips.

Their bodies move and press against each other until the brick wall at Ludwig's back makes it impossible for them to get any closer without discarding their clothes; Ivan's fingers tremble as he takes Ludwig's face into his hands, sparks running along his spine as his blood sings with desire and god, he wishes he could properly see Ludwig's expression, he regrets giving in so soon to impulse because now he can't see, can't see that face twist with pleasure. His impatience doomed him.

"Please" he pleads in between kisses, "please, take me home with you. Please."

He knows Ludwig was trying to guide him back to his hotel, drop him off there and return home on his own because he's unkind like that, but Ivan doesn't think he can bear to lie there all on his own anymore like some used and old toy that is put back onto its shelf, forgotten. Not when his lungs scream for oxygen and his heart threatens to burst out of his chest, not when he feels hot breath on his lips. Ivan will beg for it if he must. He doesn't really know shame the way Ludwig does anymore. Pride has become such a useless thing.

"Please, take me with you."

He whines when Ludwig meets him half-way into the kiss.

.

.

.

Morning is a cruel hour but it's a bit more merciful when you are not alone.

Ludwig's skin is still damp with sweat against his own as they lie in bed, and Ivan entertains himself by brushing his fingers through his _business partner's_ thin blond hair until he wakes. Sleep never did come for him, but it's bearable, he's used to it by now. He doesn't think he's slept properly in years. It's why he keeps coming here despite the work that piles up on his own desk, why he gave up on talking politics – here he doesn't need to think too much.  
Here he can bask in a pretense of happiness, take comfort in the knowledge that he can feel another heartbeat next to him, another living breathing thing that he hasn't ruined yet and that doesn't know how it could ruin him in return.

The light in the room is tinted blue by the curtains and Ivan smiles in triumph at the many vases with their bouquets all over the room. Because no matter what Ludwig may claim, no matter how many times he complains that Ivan sees more than there is, no matter how much he stomps his foot and insists that this is not personal… he keeps the flowers.  
Ivan will help him paint a picture where they fit.


End file.
